The Right Three Words
by cactusnell
Summary: Molly Hooper's relationship with Sherlock Holmes starts with three little words. But when will he get around to saying the right three words? Sherlolly


"I'll have coffee."

Those were the first three words that Dr. Molly Hooper ever heard fall from the lips of Sherlock Holmes. It was on her first day at St. Bart's Hospital in London. She was at a new job, in a new city, beginning a new life. She should have been put off by his demeanor, his attitude, but for some reason she wasn't. Maybe she sensed that he didn't actually mean to sound arrogant or dismissive. But, oh good lord, he was possibly the most handsome man she had ever seen. Dark curls, blue/green eyes, cheekbones to die for. But his brain was by far the most beautiful thing about him. Molly was used to smart. She appreciated smart. She was smart. But his brilliance overshadowed everything she had ever seen before, and this went a long way toward earning him forgiveness, at least in her eyes, for his somewhat obnoxious behavior.

So for a couple of years, Molly worked with him. In fact, she soon became the only pathologist at St. Bart's who would work with him. And he, of course, being brilliant, came to realize how intelligent and diligent she was. He grew to appreciate her calm efficiency, her attention to details, her insights. He grew more and more accustomed to her stammering in his presence, her nervousness, assuming it was his somewhat abusive behavior that caused this. By the time he realized that she had developed a serious infatuation with him, he deemed it too late in their partnership to rectify the situation, so he attempted to use it to his advantage. He smiled at her when he needed some special assistance. He complimented her for body parts. Molly, being quite intelligent, of course, knew what he was doing, but let him do it anyway, taking whatever she could get.

This was her life, and she was content with it.

"I need you."

This was what Sherlock Holmes said to Molly Hooper when he discovered that she might have been the only one who could truly see him, when she saw that he was in real trouble. He told her that he thought he was going to die, and that she was the only one who could help him. Molly didn't think twice. She helped him die, just as he had requested.

After his death, he stayed at her flat for a couple of weeks. There's an old saying about familiarity breeding contempt, but Molly found the opposite to be true. Sherlock lost his mystique for Molly Hooper during those two weeks he was confined to her flat awaiting the completion of his brother Mycroft's plans for his departure. She saw him at his best, and his worst. He was grumpy, and selfish, and egotistical, as per usual. But he often sat with her in the evenings watching crap telly to take his mind off his predicament, deducing baby daddies and watching starlets and has-beens attempting to dance. Molly sometimes caught him looking at her thoughtfully, and wondered what was going through his brilliant mind. Every once in a while she caught him smiling, but not very often.

When the time came for him to leave, she got the impression that there was something he had wanted to say, but thought better of it.

"I don't know when I'll be able to come back, you know."

"I know, Sherlock. Just try to make it sooner rather than later, okay?"

"I think you'll be safe. I hope so. Moriarty seems to have overlooked you, unlike John or the others. A mistake I have made in the past…"

"Just be safe, Sherlock. And try not to worry too much. They'll be okay. I'll keep your secret."

Then he kissed her on the forehead and was gone. It wasn't until he was deep into the night outside her door that they both realized that she hadn't stammered a bit.

Molly had to console herself with the fact that while the others mourned his death, she alone knew that he lived. She had promised him that she would try to be happy, that she would try to move on. She would try, because this was her life now, and like it or not, she had to be content with it.

"I want you."

These were the words which Molly had always hoped to hear, but never thought she would, coming from the lips of the world's only consulting detective.

Sherlock Holmes had been back from the dead for almost a year, and things had certainly changed in his life. His best friend, Dr. John Watson, had married a former assassin who was being blackmailed by a power hungry megalomaniac. Mary Watson had shot Sherlock, almost but not quite killing him. John had eventually forgiven her, perhaps influenced by the fact that she was now heavily pregnant. Then Sherlock had murdered the blackmailer and been exiled for four minutes, which was possibly all the punishment he deserved for ridding the world of such a parasite.

Oh, and Moriarty may have returned.

But, as Sherlock Holmes saw it, the biggest complication in his life since his return was the engagement of his pathologist to someone called Tom. Boring Tom. Dull Tom. Certainly not comparable to Sherlock Holmes. It really hadn't taken much to separate the two. Molly didn't seem as committed to the relationship as she, perhaps, should have been. And Tom didn't put up much of a fight when Molly gave him back his ring. Perhaps he had sensed the inevitable outcome as soon as Sherlock Holmes returned to their lives. So Molly was now a free agent, once again. One who no longer stammered or blushed in the mere presence of the detective. A woman who dealt with him from a position of real friendship.

So she was more than a little surprised when one morning, arriving in the lab without John, who was becoming more and more occupied with his medical practice and upcoming fatherhood, Sherlock cornered her in her office. He approached from behind, wrapping one arm around her waist, as he gently moved a few stray strands of her long hair away from her ear, and leaned in to whisper the words, "I want you", in a voice which left no doubt of his meaning.

Had this happened a few years previously, Molly would have collapsed at his feet. But the new Molly Hooper had enough composure to say, "You have to at least buy me dinner first!". Sherlock Holmes snickered, then, nibbling her ear, whispered, "Pick you up at seven!"

Molly had shared many a meal with Sherlock during their long acquaintance, but never one fraught with so many expectations of what was to follow. She would look up to find him smiling at her across the table, and she would blush like she hadn't done in years. When he spoke, he was the one who stammered, a refreshing change, at least in Molly's view. There was a brief moment of embarrassed silence when the waiter asked what they were having for dessert, broken by a small bout of laughter.

Just before they entered the cab after leaving the restaurant, Sherlock interlocked his fingers with Molly's and leaned in to ask, "Your flat or mine?" It would be a mistake to say that Molly had not given this question some considerable thought. If they went to her flat she would be faced with the possibility of waking in the morning to find him gone. At his flat, well, he would certainly have to stay, but he might be a bit uncomfortable. She decided she could deal better with his discomfort than with his absence, so she opted to return to Baker Street.

When Molly awoke in Sherlock's bed very early the next morning, she was not surprised to find herself alone. When she slipped on one of his shirts and made her way to the sitting room, she was surprised to find herself alone. She hadn't counted on his doing a bunk from his own flat. Molly decided that maybe he had been called out on a case. Should she go back to bed and await his return, pretending she didn't even know he had gone? Or should she take this opportunity to beat a hasty retreat? Last night had been wonderful, and she certainly didn't want to give Sherlock the impression that she was trying to escape him. So she crawled back under the covers to await his return.

Molly Hooper was awakened about an hour later by the familiar soft putting of her cat, Toby. She casually lifted her hand to pet him when she suddenly remembered where she was. What the bloody hell was Toby doing in Sherlock Holmes' bed?

"I thought you might be worried about him." Sherlock said, as if reading her thoughts. "I know you don't like leaving him alone for a long time. I also packed you a bag."

"A bag?"

"Well, you didn't bring anything with you last night. I thought you might need a few things until we get this situation organized."

"What situation, Sherlock?"

"Well, we'll have to decide what furniture of yours to move in. Your bed can go in John's old room, in case we have guests. The extra fridge will come in handy for body parts. Mrs. Hudson loves cats, so Toby is no problem,..."

"What the hell, Sherlock? You're moving me in?"

"Why not? Last night proved how compatible we are. Your lease is due to expire soon. I told you I wanted you, and you did suggest coming here last night…"

"For the night, Sherlock. Not for the long term…"

"Why not, Molly? Give me one argument against it." But before she could think of one Sherlock had gently taken Toby's place on his bed, moving to position himself over her and silencing both her mouth, and her thoughts, with a long kiss.

Later that day, Molly lay in Sherlock's arms as he dozed peacefully. This is my life now, she thought, and I am more than content with it.

"Marry me, Molly?"

Dr. Hooper had not really expected those three words. She and Sherlock had been living together for just over a month, getting used to dealing with each other's personal foibles on a daily basis. She had grown accustomed to his playing the violin in the middle of the night, even if Toby hadn't. He had survived his first up close and personal bout with Molly in the midst of a full-blown attack of PMS.

"Why, Sherlock?"

"I'd like to make this a permanent arrangement, Molly. Don't you like living with me?"

"You know I do! But why so soon?"

Sherlock laughed a bit, but went on to explain. "How can you call this soon, Molly Hooper? We've known each other for seven years. Do you really think we're going to get to know each other any better? We complement each other…"

"Complemen?"

"Yes. I'm a bastard, and you're not! What else do we need to know about each other. So…"

"When?"

"How about today? Mycroft can arrange it, if I ask him for a favor."

"You hate asking your brother for favors!"

"I'll make an exception in this case. How about it?"

"What about our friends?"

"They've barely gotten over us living together, Molly. Let's not subject them to the shock of a wedding. We'll let them know as necessary. So?"

"Yes," Molly said as she threw her arms around Sherlock's neck, and cried happy tears into his shirt. His lovely purple shirt.

Molly Hooper was marrying the love of her life, and as she saw the years spreading out in front of them, all she could think about was spending those years in a state of perfect contentment.

"I love you."

Molly Holmes had not really expected those three words to ever come out of her new husband's mouth. She had hoped, she had dreamed, but never really expected. But as they exited the car provided by Mycroft Holmes to take them home after their surprise wedding on that unexceptional afternoon, Sherlock had whisked her into his arms, carried her up the stairs and across the threshold of their flat, kissed her on the cheek, and said those glorious three words! He then spun her around the sitting room, almost trampling a terrified Toby, and shouted it until Mrs. Hudson yelled up the stairwell, "Everybody who needs to know that, dear, is already well aware of the fact, thank you! Please try to keep it down!"

The couple then collapsed onto the couch giggling like a couple of children. And Molly Holmes, nee Hooper, found that she was so much more than content. She was happy! Giddily, gloriously, profoundly happy!


End file.
